


A Place to Lay His Head

by Revenant



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1000-3000 words, Gen, Hunting, One-Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-26
Updated: 2007-03-26
Packaged: 2017-10-07 13:39:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Revenant/pseuds/Revenant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing is, they're both tired, and Dean's injured, and Sam kind of hates black dogs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Place to Lay His Head

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was inspired by a piece of fanart by joosetta.

The thing about black dogs is that they're smart and they're fast. Sam remembers the first time he ever hunted one. He was fourteen and stumbling through the woods, repeating to himself the careful instructions Dean had given him, trying to keep quiet and bite-back the urge to call for his brother or his dad. Sam was rarely scared on hunts. Fear set-in afterwards -- along with the shock -- following hot on the heels of the adrenaline rush. During a hunt, though, Sam was solid – unless Dean was nervous. Dean had gripped his shoulders firm and repeated the instructions twice – which he never did, always trusting Sam to be smart and sensible. When the hunt was finished, Sam had several deep cuts that had needed stitches, and his back itched because when he'd fallen – been tackled, really – it had been directly into a patch of poison ivy.

Sam kind of hated black dogs.

It was considerably easier to hunt the damned things now that he was older, could cover ground faster, and had grown more accustomed to hunting. Speed was definitely an advantage when facing a black dog. When facing two, it was essential – as was a detailed and effective plan. So Sam had speed, but a plan – not so much. Which was probably why he felt only slight relief as he found the other body of the sizeable beast they had been hunting. Both dogs were dead and accounted for – but that left Dean's whereabouts a mystery.

"Dean!" Sam called, confident now that shouting wouldn't attract any unwanted attention. "Dean!" His head was aching from the cut he'd gotten, just above his right brow when he'd fallen. Sam swiped his wrist against his brow, wiping at the trickle of blood that was making the corner of his eye squint. He directed his flashlight in a sweep of the surrounding forest. The light skimmed over what at first Sam thought was a boulder just beyond the reach of the flashlight, but when it moved it caught his attention.

"God dammit," a familiar voice muttered.

"Dean?" Sam called again, relief in his tone as he jogged forward. His body was aching and he was tired. This was their second night prowling in the woods, and they'd spent most of the time running at full-sprint in fear of being devoured by the dogs, for three nights previously they'd been up late researching and following leads, and of course the only time to talk to witnesses was when the sun was up, which didn't leave much time for sleeping. Now that he had found Dean, Sam's adrenaline was rapidly fading and all he wanted was a shower and a place to sleep off the exhaustion – not necessarily in that order.

"Sammy?" Sam came-up beside him and stopped at the sight of his brother struggling to push-off another black dog that was draped over him like a blanket. "Did you know there were three of these little bitches?" Dean asked, still shoving at the body.

"Uhm," Sam said. "No." He crouched down and leant his strength, shifting the limp carcass until Dean grunted and shimmied into a sitting position, leaning his back against a nearby tree. "You okay, Man?"

"I think my legs are asleep," Dean said, quirking his head to the side as he looked at his legs, as if expecting them to explain themselves to him.

"Well, you can walk it off, we're not far from the hotel."

"Dude, I know," Dean said, already making his way onto his feet. Sam frowned as he noticed his brother using the tree for support. Dean didn't get far before his legs gave-out from under him and he toppled back to the ground before Sam could move to catch him. "Son of a bitch."

"What?" Sam asked, already crouching again and prodding at Dean's legs, trying to find an injury.

"My damn knee." Dean's hand was gripping at his right knee, the one that he had injured when he was twenty and on a hunt with their dad. It had been a harpy, or a banshee – some particularly obnoxious creature; Sam had been home studying for a geography test, but that had been put aside when John came in carting an unconscious Dean in a fireman's hold, blood seeping into his clothes from the wound on Dean's leg. Dean had walked with a limp for a good while following that, and it still pained him sometimes, though he never complained about it.

Dean thumped his left boot against the ground in frustration, and then swore. In answer to Sam's raised eyebrows he explained, "Pins and needles." Sam smirked a little at his brother's indignation, and then frowned as he considered the problem at hand: two legs that were stubbornly asleep, and a knee that was no doubt causing a considerable amount of pain.

"Okay, hold on a sec," Sam said, shifting so he could stuff his gun into the pocket of his zip-top and the flashlight in the other, and then he manoeuvred into a crouch directly in front of his brother.

"Dude," Dean said, confusion dripping from his voice. Sam didn't need to see his face to know what expression Dean was wearing. "What are you doing?"

"Well, you can't walk."

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."

Sam presented his back to his brother and then reached back when it seemed Dean wasn't getting the message and grasped his brother's wrists, dragging them up over his shoulders. "Come on, Gimpy."

"Screw you," Dean muttered, but he adjusted on Sam's back, letting Sam loop his arms around Dean's legs, hooking them around Sam's waist.

Sam stood and shifted to get his balance. "Man, you weigh a ton." He stumbled a bit and rolled his eyes when Dean told him to 'giddy-yup'. "Just so you know," Sam said as he picked his way through the forest, navigating by the ample light of the moon. "There is no way I'm heading out tomorrow. In fact, don't wake me up at all." Dean's snort sent a puff of air against Sam's ear that tickled slightly. "I mean it, Dean. Tomorrow's an official holiday. All evil and general weirdness will stop in honour of Sam Winchester Needs to Sleep Day." He waited for a retort, because he'd purposely set himself up for one in the hopes that some banter would keep him awake long enough to get back to the motel. They'd finally cleared the woods and it was about ten minutes to the motel from there.

The silence made Sam pause a moment. The night was quiet, and Sam could easily pick-out the deep even breaths Dean was taking, each exhalation ruffling the hair at the back of Sam's neck and sending shivers down his spine, his brother's head resting on his shoulder, his nose pressed to the side of Sam's neck.

"Alright, come on, Princess," Sam muttered, shifting his brother's weight and starting to walk again. "I can't believe I have to haul your ass back to the motel. You owe me for this. Big time," he added. He was answered with a quiet snore.

The breath was steady and lulling, and despite his brother's heavy weight, Sam found his eyes drooping. He reached the door to room twenty-one and pulled out the room key, tripping as he crossed the threshold and almost sent them both crashing to the ground before he regained his balance and kicked the door closed.

Dean's body was slipping down Sam's back as he headed towards Dean's bed. Sam didn't have a plan on how he was going to relocate Dean from his back onto the bed, but any forethought was taken away when he stumbled over his own duffle bag and ended-up sprawled across the mattress, Dean draped across his back.

It wasn't the most comfortable position he'd ever been in. He was fully clothed with his shoes on, his feet hanging off the end of the bed with his big brother snoring contentedly on his back, but Sam was too tired to move, too exhausted to feel discomfort. He shifted a leg, a half-hearted attempt to shimmy his way up further so less of him was hanging off.

In his sleep, Dean shifted a low grumble showing his displeasure with the movement his mattress was making and Sam paused a moment, waiting for Dean to wake-up. Dean snuffled sleepily, and Sam knew from nights of watching his brother sleep that Dean's freckled nose was wrinkling as he resettled, his head pressed between Sam's shoulder blades. It was pretty clear that Dean had no intention of going anywhere, and Sam had neither the energy nor the inclination to move. "I don't get paid enough for this," he muttered to himself as he closed his eyes and buried his head in the pillow.

Hours later when Sam would open his eyes late in the afternoon of the next day, Dean would have flipped onto his back, half on the mattress and half-draped over Sam. He'd be snoring and sprawling – an graceless tangle of limbs, impossible to wake – and when Sam finally pulled himself from bed to shed his clothes, he'd find a wet-mark on the back of his jacket.

\------------------------  
The End 


End file.
